Their Wasted Lives
by Sapphire at Dawn
Summary: Remus Lupin is left nearly in tears after a visit from Harry, as he remembers his school days, and the lives that were ruined by his so called friend.


_**I accidentally deleted this fic instead of another one, so I decided I might as well re-write it. So, to those of you who recognise it, here's the updated version! To those who don't enjoy! Please review as constructive critisism is always welcome.**_

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'_I heard him- I heard my dad.'_

_They were words, only words, thrown out by a thirteen year old boy. _

'_Why – you didn't know my dad, did you?'_

_They were words, only words._

'_You must have known Sirius Black as well.'_

_Words, only words._

Remus Lupin was sat at his desk, staring around at the contents of his office, his mind in turmoil. He rested his gaze briefly on the empty glass tank in the corner, the wooden trunk that contained rolls of fresh parchment, quills and spare bottles of ink, the bookcase on the back wall, even the unlit stub of a candle on his desk, but he saw none of it.

The words were spinning around in his mind; _my dad. Sirius Black. Did you know him? _The thoughts that he had been trying to avoid since the day he had arrived back at this haunting castle were finally tumbling over the brick wall he had built to keep them out. He had made his way back from the History of Magic classroom dogged by ghosts of the past; young boys, laughing and joking together, shoving each other into the walls. Young boys, innocent and free, practicing their trip jinxes and snorting when someone fell.

Young boys, two of whom wouldn't reach their twenty-second birthday.

The desk beneath his elbows rattled, shaking him back into the present, he jumped and looked about himself as if startled to find that he was sat in his office. He lifted his arms and ran his hands though his hair, sighing to himself. If only Harry knew that he wasn't the only one affected by the voices conjured partly by the foul magic of the Boggart Dementor, partly by Harry's own mind. But the boy did not know how deep Remus's connection to his father was.

At first, when Albus had offered him the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Remus had leaped at the chance; full time employment, lodgings, a decent wage. But as September the first drew closer, he began to realise what going back would really mean; facing the past and the memories he had locked away in a dark corner of his mind. Briefly, he had thought about writing to Albus to say that he couldn't accept the job after all, but it was only a fleeting thought. He needed the money more than he wanted to avoid painful reminders of what had been.

Boarding the train had been hard enough; it had all began to flood back to him, the memories that he had shunned for years. He pushed them firmly to the back of his mind and walked through the carriages to the very last one, one he knew he had never sat in with his friends; they had preferred compartments in the very middle of the train; in the heart of the hub. He heaved his suitcase onto the rack above the seats and sat down, closing his eyes to ward off the oppressive memories. He kept his eyes closed as he began to hear the first voices arrive on the platform and then as they began to spill onto the train. Then, someone opened the door to his compartment and he froze as he heard their voices.

'_Who d'you reckon he is?'_

Remus forced his breathing to slow down; he wanted to appear convincingly asleep, not that they'd bother him either way; he remembered he and his friend's youthly attitudes towards their professors.

'_Anyway, what were you going to tell us?'_

Their attention turned away from him, and Remus, out of nothing but his own curiosity, opened one eye ever so slightly to peek at the students he would be sharing the journey with.

A shock of black hair that stuck up at the back. Remus froze again. The boy turned and he saw though squinted eyes his thin face and his round glasses. He knew who this boy was, and his heart began to race faster and faster, beating hard against his chest. This was Harry, a boy Remus hadn't seen since he was a year old. He looked so like his father; Albus had told him of the uncanny resemblance, but Remus had never thought he would look almost exactly the same. He was almost like a reincarnation of his long dead father…

No, Remus told himself firmly, pushing the tumble of thoughts back into the dark corner of his mind where he kept them. No. Harry was not James, and he never would be. Remus had to remember that Harry was his own person, a different person. Nothing would bring James back.

The desk rattled again, jerking Remus back from his troubled thoughts once more. Again he ran his hands through his hair. Again he sighed. The brick wall in his mind was in danger of collapsing. But why shouldn't it? Why not let all the memories from decades ago flood into his memory? Why should he not relive those moments? It took so much effort to keep them at bay that letting them loose would be a relief. It would cause pain, but goodness knows Remus was familiar enough with that.

He buried his head in his arms, remembering James's voice from all those years ago; his chiming laugh and happy tones. Suddenly, he stood up and crossed to a wooden cabinet that stood in the corner behind his desk. He opened the door and took something out; it was a stone basin decorated with complicated runes and patterns. It held a silvery substance that emitted a soft glow, a substance that looked neither liquid nor gas. He walked back to his desk and placed Dumbledore's Pensive on the scratched wooden surface, remembering the Headmaster's words to him on the first day of term, '_I often find this useful if I have too many memories rushing around in my head'._

Remus had thanked Albus, but he swore to himself that he'd never use it. He'd keep it a while, and then return it with his polite thanks. Back then, he had no desire to re-open old wounds. But now his resolve had crumbled. Perhaps the wounds needed to be reopened in order to let some of the bad humours out. How medieval, he thought grimly to himself.

He reached for his wand and set the tip to his temple and drew it away, bringing with it a long, silvery strand of memory. He deposited this into the basin and swirled the contents around, peering inside.

He saw his eleven year old self reflected in the stone basin, standing on platform nine-and-three-quarters, the place where he had first set eyes on that scarlet steam engine; the Hogwarts Express. The gateway to his magical education, the education he never thought he'd be able to receive. He remembered the wonder he had felt then, the hope, the excitement, the fear. He felt them as keenly as if it had happened mere hours ago. He watched as the young boy boarded the train, waving to his tearful parents as the engine began to chug away from the platform. He watched as he lugged his heavy trunk into the nearest empty compartment and sat down by the window, watching the city flash by. He had only been sitting there a few minutes when a small, lumpy boy slid open the carriage door and mumbled nervously if the seats were taken. Young Remus answered that they were not, and the boy sat down. They exchanged nervous smiles and greetings, but after this, fell silent.

Shortly afterwards, a small, thin faced boy with messy hair and glasses threw open the door and an eleven year old James Potter walked in, accompanied by Sirius Black. They sat down with them, bringing noise and laughter to what would have otherwise been a lonely compartment.

Remus smiled as he remembered how, after a few short hours, James and Sirius disappeared again, but they had left a cheerful atmosphere and he and Peter had continued their conversation, albeit with a slightly less mischievous air. The boys had formed a small bond that day, though it would take several more months, a few arguments and two detentions to cement them together.

He swirled the basin again, dissolving the scene. It reformed again in moments, showing a scene about a year later, some months into their second year. The memory this time was simply a hug. A many-armed hug of comforting friendship, condolence and acceptance.

Remus's eyes stung with tears he had held back for years as he remembered how quick his friends were to accept him when they found out what he really was; he remembered their offers to accompany him, jabbering on about becoming Animagi, of all things. He had assumed that they were joking, or that the idea would wear off after a week or so, or when they discovered just how difficult it was. But they had shocked him when the late night theory study rolled into weeks, and then months, and then years. It was something he could never forget, and that he would be eternally grateful for.

This scene dissolved too, and an image re-formed as the swirling motion ceased. They were fifteen years old now, basking in the glorious sunshine that streamed onto the grounds and the lawns in front of the lake. Sirius was sprawled on the ground, soaking up the June rays, lounging regally on the grass, watching James, who was sat, cross-legged, a few feet away. James was playing with something in his hand, the picture was too small for Remus to see what it was, but Peter was watching him too. Remus saw himself, sat next to James, resting back on his hands, staring around at the other students milling about them, a happy, relaxed look on his face.

As the present Remus looked down on the scene, another tear rolled onto his cheek. He looked at the four boys, surveying them hungrily as if to draw the normality and happiness from their lives. They sat there, blissfully unaware of the terrible events that would soon befall them. They sat there, not knowing there was a future traitor in their midst. A traitor who would shatter their friendship and peace beyond repair.

They were just four ordinary teenage boys, sitting where many generations of students had sat before, and where many more generations would sit long after any trace of these marauders had been wiped from the castle. These boys would be torn apart and left scattered and wrecked, ruins of lives that should have been left to extend many years into the future, to see their children grow and have children of their own. They would never have that chance.

It was hard to believe as Remus looked down at the scene that in only six years time, two of the four would be dead, killed by someone they considered a best friend. His gaze turned to Sirius, lying on the grass. A corner of his mind still found it hard to accept that he would be responsible for the mess and carnage that would unfold.

He thought back to Harry, and was glad that he could not see what was in the Pensive. Glad that he could not remember the times where the traitor and his prey were inseparable. Was he, even then, plotting against his friend? What would turn him? Remus would never know. He never wanted to know.

He saw now that a group of girls had walked into view, and smiled sadly to himself. He knew what was coming. A declaration of hatred that would soon bloom to love, but would be cut short before it had even begun.

Remus cast one last look at the doomed group before casting the Pensive aside and allowing tears of sorrow to cascade freely down his cheeks, in memory of their wasted lives.


End file.
